Howl
by nocheflor
Summary: He had been the only one to remind her of what she really was; underneath the sheep's clothing, she was a wolf. He had brought that out of her. The alternative story of Ramsay and Sansa where they use, abuse, manipulate, but in the end, crave each other like an addict. Ramsay/Sansa
1. A THOUGHT

I want so much, so much  
So love me in disguise  
But now you're just somebody else  
All the lies I tell myself

There's so much in your blood  
I'm here to help you let it out  
I'll cut you up all night baby girl if I'm allowed  
I'll use the same weaponry that you used on me

Impossible, impossible  
You're impossible, impossible

I know enough, enough  
How much more can I make?  
Now I'm just somebody else  
Feed the lions to myself

Impossible, impossible  
You're impossible, impossible

I'll cut you up all night

\- "Impossible" by Mothxr, whereas much of their first album reminds me of Ramsay and Sansa.

* * *

 _To all of those who had hoped_

 _that the story arc between Ramsay and Sansa_

 _would have turned out better,_

 _developed beyond being locked in a room_

 _(and Sansa could have shown more strength)._

 _Thank you all in coming to support_

 _the couple that should not be supported._


	2. SANSA I

Despite the way she was born, Sansa was not a silver-bellied trout, flopping by the riverbank. She was a Tully in her coloring only. Despite the words others said, she was not likened to be a "little bird" or "little dove" either. Despite the blackened hair she wears now, she is not the mockingbird bastard daughter, Alayne. She had sewn feathers into her gown, but despite that, it did not mean Sansa was a bird to fly off onto her wings.

As she stood but a few inches away from Littlefinger, him grasping her shoulders, she wondered who she was at this moment as well. Sansa was dressed in the same coat as Littlefinger; the dark fur trim, too elegant to be something of Northern design, running along the outside all the way up to her collar, closing around her throat. Was she him? He shook her body to emphasize a point, trying to draw her into him. Was she still someone's pawn?

"Stop being a bystander. Do you hear me?" His hand came to her cheek. Sansa tried to focus on the words coming out of his mouth. She looked at him. Her eyes trained on his mouth, watching it move to shape words; her gaze flinting up towards his eyes, despite the heaviness in her own to do so, seemingly weighted down by the puffy bags that had grown under them. The gray-green of his eyes boring into the vivid blue ones of hers. Sansa tried to calm her breathing, to bring attention away from the thumb moving across her cheek and focus on not letting the tears come that threatened to escape. When Sansa thought she had succeeded, when she returned focus on his words, Littlefinger left her with a fatherly kiss to the forehead and returned to the Eyrie's men standing by on their horses.

Moat Cailin was an absolute and utter eyesore. As she took a few more calming breaths, Sansa stared at it with contempt, gaze hardened, focused more then it had been before. She hated it. It was ugly, it was dreary and so she directed her feelings onto it instead of those who led her by the chain or onto herself for allowing others to do so. Steeling herself, Sansa let Moat Cailin hold her only a moment longer before she turned towards where everyone else was gathered. The young girl who had never been fond of horse-riding before, unlike her younger sister, _unlike Arya Horseface_ , gracefully seated herself atop the silver mare, ignoring the knight steadying her horse and the crinkling edges by Littlefinger's eyes. Sansa would only look forward as she drove the heels of her boot into the flank of the horse.

To be married. Again. To be married again and this time to the traitorous family who murdered her own brother at a wedding. To the naturalized bastard son of the traitor who killed her brother, who as good as slit her mother's throat. _Margaery did not have nearly a hard a game to play._ She scorned the girl who had somehow gotten off easy. Although, Margaery was perhaps just a girl of summer. That much could be true, never having to brace herself against the true, harsh winds of winter. It was fine to be a soft girl down south, down in the Reach, down in the Capital. To sing sweetly like a lovely little bird, to play coy games and speak in simpering voices. Margaery surely has never had any hardships. _I doubt even she would know what to do in a position as such._

"Avenge them." Petyr Baelish had said. He hadn't offered her any way to do so. Just two words, a thought, planting the seed within her mind. Was she good enough a player to win this game? Cunning enough by her own right to follow through on the directive given to her? For once, there would not be someone beside her this time, whispering words in her ear to move by or growling support from behind. This was entirely Sansa's game. Her move.

* * *

"Open gate!"

Not a second after it had been shouted, did the heavy, wooden doors of the East Gate move inward and welcome the Eyrie party. The horses stamped in, past the hooks hanging from below the entryway, to where Bolton men stood in waiting to receive Littlefinger and Sansa's horses. Just like the day the Starks had stood to accept the royal family, so did the Boltons. Everyone who seemingly lived within the walls of Winterfell waited for their arrival. _It's ugly_. Dreary were these walls, the usual life that played in the courtyard shadowed. As much as Sansa wanted to take everything in, to see all of her home, with a passing glance she covered it all. There wasn't much left to see. The Boltons had built some of it back up, but not to it's former glory. It didn't look much like _her home_ anymore.

As hard as she was trying to spy everything she could of Winterfell, Sansa equally tried to avoid looking towards the three waiting to greet her. Littlefinger was quick to get off his horse, but Sansa stilled for as long a moment as it would be allowed to her. She moved aside her coat thoughtfully, stepped down with additional caution, meticulously removed her gloves, hands greeting the chill of _home_ and moving against each other to rub heat back into them and distract her attention. When she could no longer delay, Littlefinger guided her towards the man that had moved forward to greet her. _Always one to play the first move_.

"Lady Sansa, welcome." Such a quiet voice. Colder then the winter winds that chilled her fingertips, softer then a first snow. A quiet voice commanded silence to an effect that whatever little noise there had been in the courtyard had now abruptly stopped. Roose Bolton was Moat Cailin. Terrible, traitorous, troublesome, taunting Roose Bolton. Roose Bolton with those pale eyes, just darker then milk, staring, staring at her. Calculating, cunning, colorless as they were. The eyes that were Tully blue matched his own, staring him down. _Avengethemavengethemavengethem._

She went up against Moat Cailin, armored in her courtesies. As her mother had taught her, as Septa Mordane, as Cersei, as Margaery, Sansa gave the soft response equal to Roose's own voice, the one expected of her, of a highborn lady; the smile, the curtsey. Her dark eyes and stoney face dropped in an instant and was quickly replaced with the simple smile that made her so endearing, so comely. Two well-versed players could step around each other, having rehearsed this dance many times before.

"May I introduce my son," he said, only now turning away from her for the first time, "Ramsay Bolton." It was easy to maintain the mask on her face once she had already laid it in place. Smile when needed, recite the pretty, little words that had been taught to her. He smiles at her and looks down as he takes off his gloves. She smiles at him with something she hopes Margaery would look upon Joffrey with. However unrefined, however awkward his dance may be, Ramsay reaches out to take her hand, his so much warmer then hers, despite only being uncovered for just a few moments, and pulls it toward him. In an act that might have seemed thoughtful, Sansa criticized the entirety of it. _You should come down to my hand._ He had a boyish smile though, nervous and unsure like he didn't do it often. His voice was soft as well, though not in the same regards as his father's. Roose Bolton spoke volumes, demanding to be heard without ever being raised louder then necessary. Ramsay had spoken quietly to her, as if they were the only two in the whole courtyard.

"It's an honor to meet you, my lady." The bastard son of the traitorous man who killed her brother.

The bastard prince who gave the order to kill her father.

Had the gods chosen to punish her with bastards? Was this because of her ill-treatment to her own half-brother?

Ramsay held onto her hand for a moment longer, until she felt the heat from him leave her and Sansa quick as she may, moved to return her gloves to their rightful place. She didn't know how long she was expected to treat and play with them in the courtyard, but she upheld her courtesies long enough to turn her attention to the heavyset Lady Bolton behind both men. Walda Bolton flushed, flustered to have the attention turned onto her and gave a clumsy curtsey in return. Refraining from rolling her eyes, Sansa turned away from their hosts, _hosts to her own home_ , and returned to surveying the damage brought onto Winterfell after been taken over by the Ironborn and burnt down. _A pity, it's so ugly and awful now and I bet they haven't even prepared for winter. We'll all starve and die_. Just the same, she had threatened to do just that upon learning about her marriage and maybe she would get what she wanted this time.

"Shall we make our way inside, away from this cold?" Petyr finally spoke up. Roose, who had moved to stand beside him after the introductions, turned his pale gaze onto the other male now. For a split second, Sansa thought Roose to spite Littlefinger and continue the greetings in the courtyard, but with little then a tilt of the head, Roose Bolton nodded.

"I'll have someone show Lady Sansa to her quarters."

The horses were pulled away, already being shown the the stables, the knights of the Vale shepherded in another direction, away from the main party. An elderly woman was brought to Sansa's attention to take her away to her room.

 _How stupid. Like I don't know where my own room is._ Though it was safe to say, maybe her old chamber did not exist anymore. She may be headed to Robb's room or Arya's. These people did not know which amongst the many rooms housed within Winterfell was hers. And yet, all the same, Sansa followed after the old woman, set with a brisk pace. Weaving and turning throughout the halls that lie within the castle walls, she moved in a dream. These were the halls of her youth: where Arya and Bran dodged each other and all those around them, where she learned to sew and sing, where baby Rickon's chubby little legs tried to keep pace with them all, where Robb and Jon and Theon Greyjoy ( _turncloak, traitor_ ) contested with each other, where Mother and Father lived and breathed, _her halls, her Winterfell_. Not the dark and sullen place the Boltons had made it, not the burnt remains the Ironborn had made it. Sansa wondered how deeply buried beneath all the remnants would she have to go to find the place it used to be.

She was lead into a room, _her room_ , her old bedroom, like they knew all along it belonged to her. The one she had slept in since she was old enough to sleep by herself, the one her mother had brushed her hair in at night, the one she tied ribbons around Lady and the one she had shared lemon cakes in with Jeyne Poole. She had turned the corner without even realizing the woman had lead her here. It looked unlived in. Had no one truly stepped into her old room since she had left it? No, it would be foolish to think that were true, but Sansa couldn't help but look around and see the dust that rose up from the furs and the furniture arranged in the same way. From a distance, she heard herself give a soft "thank you" in response to the women who offered to get her hot water, but Sansa stayed focused on the sight before her. If nothing had changed, could this really, truly be her home still? Sansa was in a daze that she had not noticed the quick women's movements as the older lady had already moved to the entryway of the door until she spoke again.

"Welcome home, Lady Stark. The North remembers." Sansa had spun on her heel when she heard these words, only then turning her attention sincerely onto the woman. _Stark. The North_. What meaning did words like that have within Winterfell now? Sansa dropped her gloves on the nearest surface and shed her coat. Crawling beneath the furs clung with dust bunnies, she curled into herself.

It didn't feel like her bed.


	3. PETYR I

Quick as the new morning, life was brought back into the halls and courtyard of Winterfell. When the sun rose, weak as it may be north of the Riverlands, so too did the people to go about their day. It had been but just a few short days in Winterfell, though enough to make a habit for his daily routine and also wish to leave this place and go anywhere else. He had not seen her when he had gone down to the Great Hall to break his fast. But it was early and Petyr likened that she may be asleep still, soft, guarded in her bed. Nor did he see any of the Boltons when he took a seat at the table and made to ladle the thick, creamy white soup into a nearby bowl. It was definitely a Northern food, full of comfort, rich, hearty root vegetables, that of winter squash and carrots and parsnips and whatever else the North could find. Rich with butter and velvety smooth. Petyr ripped the heel of a crusty piece of bread, slightly stale already, but used it as a vehicle to scoop up the soup and transport it into his mouth. A few bites only anyways and he was done. There was cooled mint tea on the table, that he helped himself to, but otherwise ignored the rest.

With the chair moving along the floor with a loud scrapping noise, Petyr pushed back and left the Great Hall to find the maester and ask if any ravens had been sent for him. Although the largest castle in the North, Winterfell was not difficult to navigate through. Petyr had learned by now the quickest and most effective routes to take to get him from point A to point B, especially with as little contact with others as it was possible. The main courtyard was the most direct way to access the maester's turret, but also the most active area within Winterfell. Much of it was still being rebuilt, which contributed to further activity and bustling of those who resided in Winterfell and had business to go about. Even if Petyr wanted to swiftly arrive at the maester's turret, it was difficult to move unnoticed. He had begun to climb the stairs to the balcony that lined the castle walls of Winterfell, but as his luck would have it, he could go no further. Ramsay Bolton had been idling around the top of the steps and seemed surprised to see him approaching. Petyr continued his ascension with a nod in Ramsay's direction.

"Lord Baelish," Ramsay said, moving aside to walk next to the him, "you're certainly up early this morning." Petyr gave the younger man a thin smile and made his way to the conjunction of two railings to settle into. He brought up his gloved hands to rest on the railings, while Ramsay mirrored his actions.

"Yes, well, I certainly dislike to have idle hands," Petyr replied, looking down onto the bustle of the courtyard, instead of his company. The air was awkward between them, so it was the most comfortable and fitting action to settle into. With his gaze focused down below them, he noticed the flurry of activity already well under way. Scorched planks of wood of varying sizes sat in a heap, to be sorted of what was useable to rebuild the walls and what could be used to light a hearth. A ragged man was in the middle of the courtyard, shoveling a seemingly fruitless and endless job. Continuously passing that man, were others hauling the wood back and forth. Fire were strategically lit in various places to keep warmth and light for those toiling in these early morning hours. The scene below was punctuated with the sounds of shouting, hammering, the labors of men and women.

Petyr spied Sansa coming through the entryway, hands busy fingering the needle ornament on her necklace, eyes set in front of her as she walked determinedly to her destination. Cast against the dark and dull colors of the North, the black hair she had donned to become his bastard daughter did nothing to liken her appearance in this environment. Now that her identity was Stark again, the red would shine soon in her hair once more. He assumed Roose Bolton would be curious to see if Petyr had actually brought Sansa Stark or someone poorly disguised as her. Though, there was no reason to ruse the man with a girl unbefitting of the tales told about her.

"She really is lovely," Ramsay interrupted his thoughts. From the corner of his eye, he spied the younger man turning finally to look at him, but Petyr paid him no attention, keeping his own trained on the girl below. "I hope I can make her happy."

"I hope so too," he replied, still refusing to look up. "I've become quite fond of Lady Sansa during our travels together. She's suffered enough." Ramsay had been trained on him throughout the entire time Petyr had spoken. Still without looking up, Petyr could spy Ramsay's eyebrows furrow together, a look that equally wanted to understand, but something of concern as well had graced his features.

"I'll never hurt her," he said. "You have my word." Only then did Petyr turn his attention to the man standing beside him. He looked him up and down. Then he met the gaze of those blue eyes, like dirty, chipped ice.

"I've heard very little about you, which makes you quite a rare thing. As far as lords go." Ramsay had the decency to look abashed.

"I haven't been a lord very long," he replied, casting eyes downward briefly. "I was a bastard."

"And you're not anymore." As whispery as his voice was, Roose Boltons steps were also as soft as the first snow. He had approached them from behind, but both Petyr and Ramsay turned when he inserted himself into their conversation. Body still turned to the younger of the Boltons, Petyr eyed Roose from the side. "Allow me a moment alone with Lord Baelish."

A boy who seemed eager to please his father replied in response. Ramsay turned to Petyr once more, with a "thank you Lord Baelish" and a lowered head, before excusing himself and leaving between the space of the two other men.

A boy who seemed awkward at playing the role of a lord. Petyr was somewhat thankful for the intrusion of Roose Bolton, if only to excuse himself from the pleasantries he had to play towards the son. The father now stared at him unmoving, the twin moons that man had for eyes trained onto him, a hand to the hilt of his sword. Petyr Baelish is a master at playing the game, but he would be a fool to say Roose Bolton did not unnerve him.

"He seems pleased," Petyr said, an attempt to move forward the conversation.

"Shouldn't he be?" Roose turned and lead Petyr away.

"I assure you she's still a virgin. Tyrion never consummated the marriage," Petyr was quick to steer the direction of the conversation. "By the law of the land, she is no man's wife." Only then did Roose turn back to give some attention to him. No emotion was betrayed on his face though. Roose Bolton wore emotions, each in the same way and much to the same effect. They all looked similar and there was no discerning way to tell what the man was feeling — or thinking. As if not believing him, Roose turned away. "Inspect her if you must."

"I leave that to the brothel keeper," Lord Bolton said, on the airs of uncaring. "It's her name I need, not her virtue."

As much as Roose was leading him around the castle of Winterfell, so too was he in charge of the direction of this conversation. Cunning as he was, Roose was also vicious. Attacking constantly, he fired questions and counterpoints at Petyr within succession. The man was testing him. Finding out his loyalties. Finding out his agenda. Finding out where he held the confidence to hand Sansa Stark over to the family who killed her own. As many answers as Petyr had, Roose Bolton had an equal number of questions, if not more. Just as Winterfell was being built up around them, so was the nature of the game they were playing.

Finally, Petyr was a step ahead, literally. In a small victory, he had surpassed Roose Bolton and gone ahead of the other man. In what felt like a turning point, he was ready to take control of the conversation until Roose reveals a scroll.

"A message for you. Cersei Lannister." Roose Bolton had allowed him to think he had the upper hand, only to back him into a corner again. The gray-green of his eyes dropped down to the scroll in the other man's hands, quick to take it back from him. Petyr already noted how the seal of the scroll was broken. He was forced to look up at Roose; when he had moved to walk ahead of the other man, he was the first to descend down the steps, but now Lord Bolton was perched on the top of the stairway, with those pale blue eyes staring down on him. Petyr looked away. Roose continued: "The Lannisters made you one of the great lords of Westeros, yet here you are in the North, undermining them. Why gamble with your position?"

Petyr met the other man's gaze. "Every ambitious move is a gamble," he said, while taking a step up to meet him squarely. "You gambled when you drove a dagger into Robb Stark's heart." Teeth bared in a crooked smile, he continued, "It seems like your gamble paid off." If Petyr did not have the upper hand in this little game between the two of them, at least he had leveled the playing field. At another time could he take the win. Roose Bolton, although he hated to admit it, was equally as devastating a player as himself.

"I'd like to borrow one of your birds," Petyr finished off by saying. "Cersei would expect a reply."

With that spider soft voice of his and a tilt of the head, Roose said, "I'd like to read that reply." Then, the other man moved past him, presumedly to lead the way again and escort him, like a child, to the maester's turret.

* * *

They had not been far off from where the rookery was located. After a carefully worded reply and a thorough read-through from Roose, Petyr was free to send the bird off and free from the company of the other lord. It was also about time to be free from this place and travel back south again. Petyr was not of the North, nor could he sit around up here, trying to play moves from the back seat. He needed to be in the thick of the action, the middle of things, a powerful seat to command moves.

Petyr Baelish made his way around Winterfell, ordering his knights of the Vale to make haste in packing up their things and be ready to make a move out of Winterfell within the coming hours. He cleared his things out of the room they had supplied him in the guest house and donned his traveling cloak. He needed to find Sansa and let her know of his departure. As he made his way throughout the castle, Petyr imagined Sansa would not be happy by this news. In order to get what he wants though, he would need to be elsewhere in the seven kingdoms. Petyr didn't have the liberty or the indulgence to hold Sansa's hand and guide her through the Bolton's maze. He had given her the tools she needed to play the game and trained her himself. If she couldn't survive and win over the Boltons, then perhaps Petyr had been mistaken about her. Perhaps she would not be a useful piece in his arsenal.

But Petyr was also a master game player and he was hardly wrong.

He found her where he thought he would. Sansa was busy paying homage to her ancestors, copying rituals of old, copying things she probably saw her father do, over and over again. Standing in front of the sepulcher of Lyanna Stark, she twirled a feather in between her fingers. He brought up stories of the dead, of a beautiful Lyanna and the prince that stole her away. Stories in truth because he had been there when Rhaegar had presented a crown of winter roses to her. Whatever else that happened, could all very well just be stories. As the continued to talk about her aunt she had never gotten the chance to know, he recognized the stony look in her face. Then, Petyr urged her away from the dead then. With a hand at her elbow, he guided her down the halls of the crypt.

"You're dressed for riding," Sansa said, finally taking note of his appearance.

"I am."

"Where are you going?" She asked, a touch of cheek to her tone. She continued to twirl the feather in her hand while they walked and spoke.

"King's Landing," Petyr finally said. The clipped conversation between them finally got her attention. He could see in her eyes she wanted more then the short answers he had been giving her until now. But it also told her that he would be gone from her for much longer then she had anticipated. This wasn't a quick trip to somewhere beyond the walls of Winterfell or business to attend to back in the Eyrie. No, King's Landing meant bigger moves were going to be played. Time consuming. Thoughtful. One's that did not involve her for the first time in awhile.

"You can't leave me here," Sansa said."

"I know how hard it is to live with people you despise, believe me," Petyr said in return. "But you must remember all that I have taught you."

"What do you mean?" They had been facing each other then, but he turned her again and they began walking once more.

"Play the Boltons," he said. "Play the game." Their footsteps were a quiet echo down. They could speak freely here. Only the ears of dead Starks could hear them now.

"Roose Bolton frightens me," Sansa said, honesty in her words, that which he could see in the Tully blues of her eyes.

"As he should. He's a dangerous man," Petyr said. "But even the most dangerous men can be out maneuvered. And you've learned to maneuver from the very best.

"You will take this Bolton boy, Ramsay, and make him yours. He's already fallen for you. Use him. Use him in whatever way you see fit. As protection against his own father if you must. You will be marrying the sole heir to the Dreadfort and now Winterfell, a man who will also become Warden of the North one day. And one day in return, you will take it all back, what is yours by right. You will be Wardeness of the North."

"Wardeness," Sansa blinked with disbelief. "But, but… I don't know how to _do_ … those things." Petyr moved to quiet her fears and doubts with a soft kiss on the lips. It was chaste and nothing more then a comfort. His hand rested at her cheek when he moved away.

"Sure you do. For how long have you watched Margaery play Joffrey? You are also far more skilled then the Queen," Petyr said. "Make Ramsay Bolton yours and Winterfell will also be yours."


	4. SANSA II

Sansa had taken to wandering about the castle like one of the ghosts of Winterfell. When she first arrived, Sansa wanted to explore every nook and cranny shielded and guarded behind these castle walls — what was different, what was the same, what still had imprints of her family on it. The direwolf banners had been replaced with that of the Bolton's flayed man and the faces of the stone wolves had been smashed in as well. If Sansa was being honest with herself, it was hard to figure this to be her home from long before. No one within the castle were the same employed when she was a girl. Most of it was still being rebuilt. There were no other Starks besides herself now. But, it was still her home, and she would make sure to never abandon it again.

These days, she now roamed to distract herself. She wasn't in the company of the Boltons very often. Several days after Petyr had left, she had gone to the brothel in the winter town with Roose Bolton. It was a short, though uncomfortable journey with the lord and if not for the nature of what was being done to her, Sansa would have been relieved to be away from his presence and with that of the brothel keeper. As Sansa stared up at the darkened ceiling and resolved herself to being poked and prodded in a place she had thought she would never be poked or prodded in, she wondered if this was the brothel her brother Robb had visited with their half-brother Jon and the traitor Theon. That was a long time ago and surely this hovel wasn't servicing any lords from Winterfell now. The outcome of her virtue had been relayed to Roose and they had returned to the castle with as few words as the last time.

Even though she had listened to what Petyr had told her, Sansa was still unsure of how to make Ramsay Bolton hers. How to control a man, whereas she was a girl who had hardly no control over her own life throughout most of those days she had been alive. She understood the tact with bringing her intended over to her side, she had seen how Margaery benefitted from it, and Sansa understood in the long run how it would help her, help her survive amongst those who had betrayed and murdered her family. But she just didn't know how to do so. Sansa didn't have the confidence that Margaery showed. Never good enough, always being told to marry one person or another, until she didn't serve their purposes anymore. _And here I am again, being married off to someone else_.

She wasn't avoiding him, but Sansa had little more contact with Ramsay then that of his lips on her hand when she had first arrived. Petyr had told her nothing of him, nor had she heard any whispers of what his character might be. Though, she didn't hear very many whispers within the halls these days anyways. Besides work and daily chores, no one seemed privy to wanting to talk more then they had to. As Sansa mulled these things over in her mind, her feet led her down the familiar path she often found herself going to. She spent much of her time now down in the crypts. More candles had been found throughout Winterfell, which she had stolen down for her ancestors to bring light to the black halls. Like when she would play with Robb and Arya and Bran and even little Rickon, this was a place she could hide and often not be found. Even if amongst all the people here, she felt alone, this was a place she could truly find peace.

As she routinely lit the candles in the crypt, Sansa now thought about the old woman who had, at first, showed her to her room when she arrived here, but now also had come to her again. The old servant had told her that she still had allies in the North, that should Sansa ever need help, only light a candle in the highest window of the Broken Tower and someone would heed her call. Sansa couldn't help but scoff. Of her family's bannermen, who really would come to her aid? _I guess at least I have one daft, old fool to protect me_. To that, Sansa smiled grimly. No, no one would come riding in on a silver horse, ready to fight for her honor and virtue. She wasn't a silly little girl who still believed in knights in gilded armor or any of those sorts of things. She had been so distracted in her thoughts and occupied with trying to make the wick take light, she hadn't heard the footsteps approaching.

"I had never expected to find you in a place like this. What with it so dirty and dark," she heard a voice speak only now and turned towards the direction it came from. "Very creepy too, I might add." Ramsay Bolton gave her a boyish smile though. She had lit far more candles then when Petyr had come to find her and it cast dancing shadows across his face.

"Well it is a crypt. There's literally only hundreds of dead people around here," Sansa couldn't help but retort.

"Who knew you keep company with the dead," Ramsay mused, soft again like it was only for them to hear. Sansa turned from him to continue trying to light the candle perched in the hand of some other dead Stark. She took care of those related immediately to her, the dead she had never even met, but those family her father mourned, and slowly Sansa had been making her way throughout the other ancestors she would never come to know.

"Yes, well," Sansa said, finally able to get the wick to catch. She moved to the next Stark statue, soft steps following behind her. "At least the dead leave me alone." She heard him chuckle and couldn't decide whether to take offense or not. It was one thing to actually think of her as humorous, but Sansa couldn't tell if his laughter derived from that reason or because he thought her stupid and silly and drivel. _Like most_. She turned to sneak a look behind her at him and saw that he had picked up a broken piece of candle and toyed with it. He noticed her and bared a grin this time. It was different from all the smiles he had given her before. Those that had seemed young and innocent, yet always somehow out of place. He was always excited to give them to her though, although Sansa could not know what that meant. _Play with him, Sansa. Do as Margaery would do!_

Yet she still didn't know how to make the first move. Perhaps the gods had somehow heard her for once and took pity, because Ramsay moved closer to her now. Sansa blushed prettily, though she didn't expect him to be able to see it and averted her eyes. Still shy, still young, still inexperienced Sansa. She had been courted before by many and married once before, but this was one game she still didn't understand. _But that's not an excuse_.

She had watched Ramsay take her hand closer to his and brought his broken piece of candle over to light from hers.

"Here," he said, "let me help you light the remainder." Both of them stared in rapt fascination of the conjoining of the two wicks, how the fire had overtaken both of them. Sansa felt the heat from Ramsay's hand, the one that gently held onto hers. On the two occasions that Ramsay had touched her, he had been warm. Sansa wondered if it was because he always ran a high temperature or if his hands had just previously come out of gloves, like the first instance. Looking into those ice-blue eyes, it was hard to imagine him, or any other Northmen, being anything other then cold. She just noticed how close they were now when she had peered down to look at him. They weren't quite eye to eye; Sansa was taller then him, by a small amount. She had ended up being taller then most men around her - _taller then my last husband too_.

Although the heat very well could just be coming from the fire held between their fingers. Sansa hadn't noticed at first, but because Ramsay's candle had been angled towards hers, the wax had started to drip. They had been quiet, engaged only in what was happening right in front of them, but removed, detached. Testing each other out and trying to guess about the other person. His broken candle was lit, but not taken away. The wax had begun to drip onto her hand now. They both turned to stare now at the warm pool that had begun to form. The stinging heat from the wax was not unlike that of Ramsay's hand; it was shocking and a bit difficult to bear, but in a way, Sansa liked it, though she couldn't place finger onto why that was. It still was uncomfortable and though the wax was a tad painful, she wouldn't let him know otherwise.

What had seemed like ages, did Ramsay finally tilt his candle back up and hold it alight, his other hand falling away from hers now as well. In reality, he had not let the candle drip onto her for very long, but they both had been too captivated in it to notice.

"I'm sorry, Sansa," Ramsay said, giving her that grin again. She was more in tune with noticing how he had called her by her given name and nothing else, then she had been of the wax. _Improper_. She dug at the pool on her hand. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, my lord," she answered. "It didn't hurt at all." He took her hand again and scratched at the hardened wax, not completely gently either. This time, the boyish smile returned.

"Please, Sansa," he called her name again. "Call me Ramsay. We are to be wed soon."

"Of course," Sansa paused, as if playing around with the weight of his name, "Ramsay." She noticed that he actually looked pleased by her calling him that. Something swelled in her. _Is this how easy it is to play the game of a man's heart_? He brushed off the remaining wax on her hand, holding onto it for only a second longer before he let it go.

"Shall we light the remainder of the dead's candles?" Sansa nodded weakly.

* * *

It had only been a couple of days since her encounter below in the crypts with Ramsay. Sansa had seen him around, of course, but they had hardly spoken to each other anymore then they had before. They had missed each other once, in the kitchens when Sansa had gone to break her fast, and in passing Ramsay had said they should all dine together soon for supper. She had politely agreed, almost forgetting to use his given name, though when she hadn't, Ramsay seemed all the more pleased again. She had almost wanted him to stay longer, would have invited him to eat with her, but besides it being obvious he had already had his fill, Ramsay was off before she could say much more.

Sansa had the idea that her betrothed was avoiding her. Most could see the state of the castle and it would be obvious to declare that those going about it generally tended to avoid Ramsay, but she had never thought it would be the case where he went out of his way to avoid someone else. It wasn't something she was certain of and very well could just be something she was making up in her head, but she used it as an excuse anyways to keep some distance between them until she figured out what her next move was.

As it had become her custom, Sansa went about Winterfell after having eaten a breakfast of some bread, hot from the ovens, an overripe peach, already too juicy and quite small in size, compared to the ones in King's Landing she had gotten used to, and the smallest amount of honey, golden in color and taken from the comb. It wasn't a very remarkable breakfast, nothing like the meals Gage used to cook for the castle. She frowned. She hadn't thought of Gage in so long, though suddenly his name came back to her. _He used to make me lemoncakes whenever he could get his hands on some_. She couldn't imagine she would be getting any lemoncakes again anytime soon. The glass garden had yet to be fully repaired and there were few stores of fresh fruit or vegetables, all of which would most likely be used up soon. If they relied on those in the south, it was possible a few lemons might find their way up here, but it was not a useful ingredient in Northern foods.

Sansa had been lost in her thought has she made her way across the grounds, through the main courtyard, when she found herself by the First Keep. Had she meant to go to the crypts again? She surely spent a good deal of her time there these days. She looked around her. Below the First Keep was the lichyard. This was a place that had looked mostly unchanged, amongst the stranger of Winterfell she often wandered through. _Father said he was going to have Lady lain here_. For the second time within the hour, Sansa thought of those ghosts of Winterfell she had not afforded herself the proper attention. It had been so long since she had let herself think of Father, of her lord father, not the head she had been forced to keep her eyes trained on. Of sweet Lady, proper, good Lady, with the kindest demeanor of the bunch of direwolf pups. If she closed her eyes, Sansa might feel her fingers running through Lady's soft, gray fur again, like nothing she had ever felt before.

She opened her eyes, but nothing was underneath her slightly raised hand. It dropped, clenched, to her side and she turned away. She moved in a dream, blindly, unwittingly, floating. Following her own footsteps in a daze, when she looked up, Sansa scaled the height of the Burned Tower. It was still broken, though no more then it had been before. A useless fixture adorning the walls of Winterfell, though no one had ever bothered to take it down or build it back up again. No one bothered with it at all. _Bran had fallen from it's height here though_. Bran, who could have been called Bran the Climber, Bran young and sweet, who hadn't even named his direwolf when she had left, who hadn't even opened his eyes when she had left, who had died -

"I like your dress," she heard a voice and turned. A girl, only a fair few years older then her had appeared next to her. Sansa's eyebrow furrowed and she scanned the newcomer. "Who made it for you?"

"Uh, I made it myself," Sansa replied, lifting up the fabric of her cloak and glancing down at what she was wearing exactly.

"Really?" The girl said in almost disbelief, before dropping her head and keeping her eyes trained on the ground before her.

"Who are you?" Sansa questioned. She looked up Sansa for a split second before lowering her gaze again.

"I'm Myranda," she said, nodding at her own name in affirmation of some kind. "I'm the kennel master's daughter." She gave a sort of shy smile and looked back towards the other girl. Sansa looked back up the expanse of the tower. "May I?" Sansa returned her gaze to the other girl, the girl Myranda, who couldn't be much older then herself, with her arm outstretched, clearly wanting to touch the fabric. Before she had given her consent, the other girl reached for the sleeve of Sansa's dress, running her fingers along the fabric, delicately tracing the stitching and softly admiring it. Sansa's eyebrows drew close together a second time.

"Who taught you?" Myranda asked. Sansa pulled back her arm.

"My mother." Again, the girl dropped her head, posturing to the girl with the highborn status in what Sansa had come to feel was almost mockingly. Myranda apologized, giving condolences to another women she didn't know, who's mother she hadn't know, and Sansa accepted it.

"It's good," Myranda finally looked up. "That she taught you. It was a gift. And now, every time you where something you made, you'll remember her."

"I'd rather have a mother," Sansa said. It was a childish thing to say. She was suddenly reminded of her younger siblings, pulling on the skirts of their mother's dress. The other girl never looked up though, just staring at the ground, the peculiar smile she wore that didn't match the intention in her words. She spoke condolences again, offered words of understanding to level with Sansa, connect with her and try to make her feel better. Told her to remember. As if Sansa could ever forget.

"I," the other girl spoke up again suddenly, her tone shifting, "almost forgot. There's something else. To help you remember." Myranda had that peculiar smile fastened on her face, tight-lipped, like she was hiding a secret but couldn't wait to spill it. Girlish, almost innocent and had Sansa not had any instinct, she would have thought nothing of it. Sansa was safe though. She had to be. She was in her home, she was to be married to the lord heir, and certainly the kennel master's daughter, who didn't _even know her_ , couldn't do anything worse then what she had already been through.

She followed Myranda, who looked behind her periodically to see if Sansa was still tailing her. A giddy excitement was in the older girl's expression and it was evident every time her face appeared over her shoulder. Myranda had only come to Winterfell recently, Sansa was sure of it, but she weaved expertly through the vast expanse of the castle and through the many courtyards, most busy in a flurry of activity. _What is she going to show me? This is my home, anything here of course reminds me of before_. Sansa had half a mind to march off on her own, to return to her bedroom and fall with an ungraceful heap onto her bed, find Jeyne Poole and steal some lemoncakes from the kitchens, brush Lady's fur and press her face into the soft grayness of it, work on her needling. She couldn't do those things anymore so instead, she just continued to walk behind this odd girl, gloved hands pulling at the needle on her necklace.

Almost unsurprisingly, Myranda brought her to the kennels. _Perhaps this is the only place the girl knows._ She pulled the gates towards her, the hinges groaning with effort and gave an open gestured indication to the inside of the kennel.

"Down there," she said, this time, her chin was held high. She was proud, to prove something, have found something, to play a move in the game against Sansa. She thought she had the upper hand. "At the end."

"What is it?"

"That would spoil the surprise," she bared her teeth now, in a full grin. Sansa could hear the hounds doing the same, lips curled back, growling in the back of their throats. "Go ahead. It's perfectly safe. You won't believe it when you see it." She moved in closer, just a hair's width, to whisper those last words, like she was divulging the world's greatest and little known secret. Like they were best friends and giggling in the night, telling each other about knights and who they fancied.

The kennels had always been dirty and dusty, but it seemed like it had given way to fall even more into disrepair. To Sansa, who had never spent much time in the kennels anyways, it was disgusting. She walked slowly, measured, almost tentatively past her, wondering if Myranda was going to play a cruel joke like Arya would and lock her in the kennels until someone found her, leaving her to shake and rattle at the barred gates well into the cold night, but the other never moved. Just smiling from behind. The dogs were at their gates though, up on their hind legs, barking, bounding forward to see new life, the locks holding them back jangling, metal on metal. These dogs seemed wild, riled up at the sight of her. Farlen had never raised Winterfell's dogs like these beasts. Sansa wondered if this is what she wanted her to see, if she was trying to frighten Sansa with this display. She turned back to look at the entrance, to gauge a feeling from Myranda, but the girl was gone. Sansa didn't know why she didn't just turn and leave at that moment, perhaps curiosity drove her forward, to make it to the end. She felt the need to conquer whatever it was this girl wanted to throw at her. If she could do that, maybe she could also survive this place.

The last cage on the left had it's gate swung open. Perhaps it was nothing at all if it didn't need to be locked in. Despite that, Sansa still felt her palms sweating in her gloves. She reached to hold onto the door of the gate closest to her, as if to steady herself, or bar her from whatever it might be. It woke up, startled by the incessant noise the hounds were making, though Sansa couldn't understand how it hadn't heard all that racket before. Perhaps he had sensed her though and that is why he had woken up with a wide-eyed terror painted on his face. Sansa couldn't control her breathing, shallow breaths, taking in the stink of the kennels. They couldn't take their eyes off each other.

"Theon," she said finally, because even under all those dirty rags, the greasy mop of hair, the stench, the missing fingers, she would always recognize him. Though he shook his head to her declaration and tried to curl into himself even more, hide more of himself that had already been damaged beyond repair. Then, he looked up again, slowly with a sadness she couldn't place. Was it for her or for himself?

"You shouldn't be here." If he was trying to warn her, Sansa already knew that much. She was angry. When she removed her hand from the gate, Theon scurried away, afraid of her, like she was going to beat him like an ill-tempered dog. Maybe she wanted to, but she stormed away with a huff, past the other dogs behind their cages. Sansa was revolted, irate, some at that girl Myranda, some at Theon, though most at Littlefinger, who wasn't even here, though no less a part of it. He had thrown her to the dogs, just as it seems Theon had been, and left her to fend for herself, amongst traitors to her house and crazed bastards who toyed and peeled pieces of humanity away. What was she supposed to do by herself?

She was just a young, stupid, _stupid_ girl who trusted someone enough to be taken from the jaws of the lions and allowed herself to be thrown into another mess entirely. More then anything, Sansa was angry at herself.

* * *

AN: Hi, it's my first author's note. If you didn't already know, my name is Erica and thank you so much for taking the time and reading my fic. I do apologize for the slow start and the general rehashing of what's already been done before in the show, but I hope by next chapter it will become more interesting for you and definitely after the wedding things will start to pick up as well. If you couldn't tell already, I'm trying to upload once a week, every Sunday, always after _Game of Thrones_ airs on TV, EST. I would greatly appreciate any sort of thoughtful review you might have, questions or concerns, or even where you might see this fic going.  
Sorry, I write business emails all day so I feel like this is kinda a stiff introduction, but please let me get to know you all better and thank you for continually supporting me!


	5. RAMSAY I

His father was marrying him off like a noble bitch in fine, silken skirts. He had been mistaken to be the Bolton highborn daughter by Roose Bolton apparently. Nothing good could come of this. If his father liked fat, ugly, unmarriageable girls so much, he could take this one too. Ramsay had no business being married, and whatever he had told Myranda, like fucking seven hells he would ever marry her either.

If they couldn't hold the North through fear, then he had been giving out daisies up until this point to the other lords. It was obvious they didn't need Tywin Lannister and his pacts, marriage to sustain their hold, or any other damned plot his father came up with for him to, for all intents and purposes, be bent over and fucked in the ass.

That had been what Ramsay had though before.

Before Sansa Stark rode into the courtyard of Winterfell. Before he saw the pale whiteness of her skin that shone even against the snowy backdrop, framed by raven-black locks and draped in clothes that only helped enhance her features. Before he saw the daggered look to her brilliantly clear blue eyes that she gave to his father. How delighted he felt, like a butterfly crush fluttering in his stomach, when all that venom she possessed was aimed at his father, the dark malice a swirling aura around her, only to drop instantaneously and a pretty coat of pleasantries and courtesies had replaced it. Even if she didn't mean it, her killing intent radiated warmth in these first snows, and Ramsay didn't know if that had excited him more or how quickly her fangs could retreat and reveal a sweet smile instead, soft and strange enough to keep even Roose Bolton spellbound.

She was far from fat or ugly and Ramsay was pleased his father had a Fat Walda Frey, because the son got something better. Ramsay was sure Roose Bolton wished he had traded in all his wife's weight in silver to snatch up the pretty young Stark girl, all long limbs and cool apathy. Her incredibly long neck he couldn't wait to bruise kisses into and dance fingers around. His father had never given him a present before, but Sansa Stark certainly made up for all the years past of neglect. Well, perhaps he still might hold that against the old man.

He had promised Littlefinger he would never hurt her, and Ramsay had half a mind to do so. Her skin like porcelain, partly afraid his touch might shatter her and he might wake up from a delusion that she had ever been there in the first place. She was the most exquisite thing he'd ever been able to look upon and he knew he didn't deserve her, though had they not already been agreed to be married to each other, Ramsay would have found some other way to have taken her. There was a vulnerability to her, as strong a front she tried to put up, as many courtesies she armored herself in, Sansa couldn't shake it off and it showed in a haunted look beneath those vivid blues. If anything, it made Sansa Stark even more beautiful and Ramsay was determined to bring out more of it.

He had heard she went to the crypts often. It was a place untouched by the Ironborn scum that had burned this placed down and equally left alone by him and his father. In truth, Ramsay had never stepped foot into the crypts. Little interest in dead Starks staring at him, if nothing else, especially when there were plenty of other amusements within Winterfell. Though now, the crypts suddenly piqued his curiosity and he couldn't think of a better place to meet his intended if not alone amongst those lifeless and cold. When he had found her there, she looked half a spirit herself. Her night-black hair was loose, untied for the first time that he had seen, and framed her face like a dark curtain. She wore the ebony clothing she had arrived in, feathers sewn into the expanse of her dress, reflecting blackened-blues by the light of the numerous candles she had already lit. Only that of her face and hands shone pale amongst the pitch darkness; her fingers, long, delicate, elegant, looking almost like white spiders daintily carrying fire from one wick to the next. When the flame danced in a certain light, her high cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut a man who dared come too close. In these shadows, Sansa looks a Queen to these Starks long gone. She could be wife to the god of Death.

When Ramsay had taken her hand, it wasn't cold like he half-expected it to be. Still warm, still pumping blood to chase through her veins, still something to cut open and bleed. They watched the hot wax drip onto her hand, his attention paid to her only, studying her, guessing what she might do. Drawn like the ocean is pulled by the moon, he moved in closer as she continued to do nothing. Though not a harsh pain, the hot wax could be uncomfortable enough, yet she was unfazed. She stood only slightly taller then himself and from here, he could see Sansa's lips were not kissed blue, but in fact quite lovely, her bottom lip had a slight pout and they were hued rosy with life. Ramsay wished he could take her first kiss. To take her right here, bend her over the iron swords that lay across the laps of those dead Starks, have their eyes give audience to their joining.

The familiar tightness in his pants cued him to steer away from the direction his thoughts were heading and he broke their concentration. He could play the good highborn heir. Ramsay could prove his father wrong, that he wasn't such the mad dog everyone likened him to be. He had restraint. He told himself it would be sweeter when he could have it for true on the night of their marriage. A fragile, gentle, noble, _virgin_ lady deserved to be broken after her wedding.

She had called him by his name and it would be enough for him. He would find Myranda, even though it wasn't what he wanted.

* * *

With their one meeting in the crypts, Ramsay had gone out of his way not to meet with her again. Myranda had only served to get on his nerves and push his desires of Sansa closer to the forefront of his mind. Though, in this situation now, he couldn't avoid her or pretend not to note her presence. His father had been the one to have him call Sansa for them to all sup together. They had never taken meals together since her arrival in Winterfell and it was rare for even his father and him to dine at the same time. Roose Bolton had even come to find Ramsay himself instead of pass along the message.

"You've been rather," his father had said, once finding him in his bed chamber, "behaved lately." He had been getting dressed, having Reek lace up the front of his shirt, when his father had come in. Ramsay didn't even try to hide the roll of his eyes.

"Well that is what _you_ told me to do, wasn't it father?" Ramsay swatted Reek's trembling fingers away, while normally the slow and clumsy way he was handled things amused him, in front of his father he became annoyed at his ineptness. He smirked though when the other man cowered into himself as usual and went to finish the laces on his shirt himself. The slight gratification Ramsay got from his abuses to Reek did nothing to lighten the mood between him and his father. He met the ice-cold stare of his father, with eyes so like his own, if anything paler and more unforgiving.

"Yes, I did," he said, "and you'll continue to do so. You will treat the Stark girl right. I will not be hearing about her ill-treatment by your hands from other lords of Houses. For the other lords that oppose us, that will be enough fuel for them to turn to the Stark's side." To Ramsay, it was like asking a small boy to not play with his favorite toy.

"I hardly think we need to give two shits what those fat lords hear or don't hear," Ramsay retaliated. "You're Warden of the North and they're not. We hold power here." His father never wore emotions on his sleeve, his face a mask, and now was no different; what tales of Roose Bolton others heard would be hold true still, even in front of his own son, as they always were. He only stared at his son with those eyes that did not betray the thoughts hidden behind them. They stood in a space of a silence that had almost become deafening. Ramsay shifted in his feet, only tearing his eyes from the pair ahead of him to look at his Reek, another who was avoiding the eyes of his father.

"Power tastes best when sweetened by courtesy," Roose finally said after awhile. "Your intended wife knows this. It would be best if you learn by her example if you ever hope to rule." He watched his father turn around to leave his bed chambers. Without turning around to face him, he said, "Invite her to dine with us." and left.

The old man was playing games with him, he knew it. Restricting him, trying to keep him on a leash, chained up. He was not the baseborn son to hide away in a castle, to reprimand for his existence. If he was not to play with Sansa Stark, he would have to find some other amusements for the time being. Reek shuffled in the corner and Ramsay smiled to himself. He would have his fun, in spite of his father's rules. He had walked into this dinner with a plan already formulated.

"I trust you'll find your chambers suitable, my lady," his father said, after some time. His fat wife was too busy stuffing her face to make conversation and Roose Bolton seemed to sense the need to fill the air with some. Happy to play his part, Ramsay put on his best look and dutifully poured his betrothed more wine. She answered his father with short, clipped responses, sullen, eyes trained on her cup and his overreaching arm. When he pulled away, her eyes flitted up to meet his for a fraction of a second.

"Mother," Ramsay said, offering to fill her cup as well now. The woman in front of him smiled kindly, almost proudly at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sansa reaching for her cup, though not to drink from it. His father kept his gaze trained on him the entire time, those eyes lighter then stone looking at him in a subtle disapproval, almost daring him to make a scene. _Who am I not to do as my father asks of me?_ He carefully tried to move back his chair with as little noise as possible, though not totally managed. With his glass raised, Ramsay turned to Sansa.

"My lady," he addressed her, but no sooner had he said that did Sansa turn away from his gaze and look down at her plate again. He was suddenly disappointed. Ramsay had wanted her full attention on him throughout the dinner, had even hoped she would throw her pointed words at his father again, only for him to receive pleasantries and smiles. It would be a victory over Roose Bolton, taming the she-wolf and using her against his own father. He had wanted her to look at him with more then her face of apathy though, for the first time, Ramsay wishes to see or evoke true emotion from Sansa.

"We are all a family, we Northerns," he continued, hardly skipping a beat. "Our blood ties go back, thousands of years. So I would like to drink to our wedding. May our happiness spread from Moat Cailin to the Last Hearth." He had seen his father's eyes go between himself and Sansa, spying her reaction, though there had been none. He heard his father's quick response, the dumb cheer from his stepmother, and the resolute sound of Sansa's cup being firmly placed back on the table and pushed away from her. Ramsay drank deep from his own. This time he paid no mind to the sound his chair made as he made his seat.

"Your wedding is so soon now, are you excited?" Walda asked. Sansa turned to look at Walda with the most saccharine smile.

"Oh yes. I'm hopeful no one will die at this wedding," she replied in turn. It took everything for Ramsay not to laugh out loud at her dumb face, mouth gaping open like she was trying to catch flies. His father didn't even acknowledge what Lady Sansa had said, only a mere flick of his eyes up from his plate and back down again.

"It must be difficult for you," the stupid cow continued speaking, a pitiful attempt to make move past the prior awkward conversation, "being in a strange place."

"This isn't a strange place. This is my home," Sansa said. Oh, he could have kissed that look right off her face. Every bit the highborn girl she was raised to be, Sansa looked down on Fat Walda Frey, scathing, fiery, with contempt. He was even happy his stepmother had opened her dumb mouth. "It's the people who are strange." Sansa didn't even bat an eye, a game of dominance until Sansa won with the lowering of Walda's own gaze. Why had he ever wanted to avoid her? The Lady Sansa was too amusing for her own good. Ramsay turned to her and finally she treated him with her own hardened look. He was reminded of the stone sepulchers where he had met her, the face of a dead Stark staring back at him, uncaring, unmoved, uninvolved. Who couldn't help but smile.

"You're right. Very strange," Ramsay said, and finished his wine. Before he had even set his cup down, he called for more.

Ah, it was his pièce de résistance, in every sense. His finest handy work come to serve in, up until now, his crowning moment between the triangle of himself, his father, and his betrothed. With the hobbling shuffling he'd come to love, in came Reek, particularly ripe, particularly broken, and particularly disgusting to Sansa Stark. Ramsay had the courtesy to dress Reek up of course though, he had listened to his father. When he had sent Myranda to Sansa with the late Lady Stark's found garments, he'd kept something for his Reek too. It wouldn't do for Reek to serve Lady Sansa in his old rags, oh no. She had been looking towards the entryway, expectant, but averted her gaze quickly, as if turning a blind eye to him would make Reek go away completely.

"I heard you two had been reunited," Ramsay said, in some sort of vain effort to keep her drawn to what was happening before her. He was rewarded with Sansa's attention turned back to him. He even pretended like it mattered not to him, almost theatrically looking up at the ceiling. "A fitting place for it." With an almost innocent, juvenile-like excitement, he looked over to gauge her reaction. Her attention was completely on him, her face frozen in her in what was becoming her typical glare.

"I like to imagine," he continued, "that the last time you spoke was in this very room." Only when Reek came to fill her already full cup, did Sansa turn away from him. He could strangle Reek for it. For grabbing her attention, even when she wanted to look away, did Sansa study Reek. Her eyes didn't wander; they were trained on him, like they hadn't been on anything before.

"Are you still," there was a soft pause, "angry with him after," more theatrics, anything to get her attention back on him, "what he did?" Ramsay stared pointedly at her, saying the last words like it was a struggle to do so, like he felt any kind of sympathy to her plight. "Don't worry, the North remembers. I punished him for it. He's not Ironborn anymore. Not Theon Greyjoy anymore. He's a new man! A new person anyway," he couldn't help but feel giddy, thinking she might share the same feeling with him, but his was still met with the grave-faced Stark. Even less then the girl he had met down below in the crypts. Ramsay turned his attention to Reek instead. Good Reek, loyal Reek, Reek who would surely never disappoint him, who would always give him what he wanted.

"It's that right, Reek!" He was answered with cheerful joys from his most favorite pet. "That's his new name. Reek," he stressed it to her.

"Why are you doing this?" Finally Sansa turned to look at him. What he had been waiting for. It wasn't the poisoned look she had given his father upon meeting him, he was almost sad to say. Ramsay had wanted to be on the receiving end of one of those, hoping to feel her heat from it. It wasn't curious disgust she graced Reek with, though he didn't quite want that either. It was scrutinizing. Purely quizzical. Purely seeking answers to his nature. And she couldn't turn away from him.

"Because Reek has something to say to you, don't you Reek?" It was his favorite game. Torturing Reek. Tormenting those around him. His father had not said a word since and his wife was too dumb to say another more, after her first failed attempt. It was his game. This is what he's best at, and even his father couldn't take this away from him. Good, properly trained Reek came to his beck and call, with a twitch of his own finger. Ramsay let them suffer through Reek's bumbling apologies, choking on his words and forcing him to heave them back up. He forced Reek to look at Sansa, and in Reek's reaction he could almost see her face reflected in it. Callous, Ramsay thought she might be, hostile, he thought she might be, merciless, he thought she might be, eyes rimmed red, he hoped she might be. For Reek's surely were. With the last of the apology strangled out of him, only then did Ramsay allow himself to look at his intended.

Her eyes were closed to him. Those around him had turned away from him. All but his father, who's eyes of the palest blue had been trained on him from the beginning. As if he had been expecting him to do this all along. He broke the tension. With the sound of the table against the floor, his father's lips parted, a nonexistent sigh for his antics to be over with. Ramsay didn't miss the quick wipe across her cheek as she hid the tear away. For some reason, it hadn't given him any satisfaction to see it. He could only joke to mask the feeling.

"You know what, my lady." Here it comes. The climax of his little scheme. What Ramsay had been planning all along, ever since his father told him no. He almost didn't want to put it in motion, but he'd laid the tracks down, it was too late to back down. "What with him having murdered your brothers, and the rest of your family gone. Reek here, is the nearest thing to living kin that you have left." He couldn't help himself. Ramsay had to look at her again.

"Reek! You will give away the bride," the apprehension he had had before saying the words, had all gone now. It was beautiful, dizzying. Her face stunned, mouth opened, lack of air, lack of understanding. Sansa Stark was truly exquisite , an absolute delight, the perfect gift from his father. Ramsay couldn't be happier. He didn't even try to hide his grin.

"Good?" He questioned around the table. "Good?"

"Yes, yes, very good," his father's voice came above his customary whisper, but only slightly. It was a warning. A tight-lipped smile directed his way should have let him know for sure. Ramsay shoved the feeling aside, returning to his all but forgotten cup of wine. "Walda and I have some good news as well." There is was, that look. His father was _up_ to something. "Since we're all together." He even tried to come off as good natured.

"We're going to have a baby." That oversized bovine just couldn't keep her mouth shut. The half-wit had to go and spoil his good mood. It was his games they were playing, not his father's, not the imbecilic-

"I'm very happy for you." Armored with her courtesies, wasn't she? Sansa also wore a tight-lipped smile, but something in those vivid blues had real mirth in their depths. She was still stunning, all the while amused by the situation. Like she didn't understand the position it put him in, like she didn't care to know how it effected the two of them, together. In equal parts he wanted to bruise his hands around her and steal soft kisses from that smile.

"From the way she's carrying, Maester Wolkan says it looks like a boy." His father spoke to him as if he was simple. Like he didn't understand how it effected his claim. His father spoke in airs like he had had this trump card up his sleeve the whole time. That anything Ramsay said or did neither effected or troubled Roose Bolton in the slightest, because he had _this_. A new baby boy to be the Bolton heir, to be lord of the Dreadfort and lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North and whatever else he damned well pleased or wanted, because that baby boy was probably gonna get it. If he waited around a few more years, maybe that baby boy would get his Sansa Stark too.

"Aren't you happy, Ramsay?" He felt a small, dainty hand reach for his own resting on the arm of his chair. He hadn't expected her hand to grasp for his, curling fingers around the shape of his, tucking them underneath the palm of his hand. He wanted to drown in his cups, but instead Ramsay found himself look towards her. Sansa's smile was radiate. She seemed sincere in her feelings, candid in her caresses, heartfelt in her words. Who could ever think of Sansa Stark of the demon she-wolf who killed a king and framed another? She was a girl, perfect and innocent and sweet to the touch.

Ramsay's grip turned to crush her own. Sansa smiled brighter still, very much lucent in the drab background of the North. She squeezed her hand to his, returning his favor, like it was something all lovers did to show their affections. Had this been what his father had meant? Sansa Stark's power over him seemed sweeter with all her comity, her amiability, her civility, _her armor_. She didn't remove her hand and he didn't let go.

"Very."


	6. REEK I

"Remember your name, Reek," he said, words tender like a lover, mirroring the caress of the wet rag grazing along his body. Though the water was boiling hot, Reek still shivered. "No matter how sweet you may smell, your nose may be lying to you. You'll always be my Reek." He could never forget. He would never. Master had taught him his name. _Reek, Reek, it rhymes with freak_. Ramsay was treating him to a bath, though he was sure he didn't want to. He was to give away the master's bride tonight. Perhaps Roose Bolton had asked for him to be cleaned. He had been presented with new clothes as well, fine, beautiful clothes. Maybe something Theon Greyjoy would have liked wearing, though there was no indictor, no color, no sigil, that they were his clothes. Reek much preferred his rags. They were safe.

Ramsay had taken care of Reek nicely. It was good, because Reek was good. Yes, that's right, good, _loyal_ Reek. It did not matter that Ramsay had set him a bath in scalding waters, it was still a treat from him, a gift. They did not aggravate his sores too much and neither did Master's rag. He even splashed a bit of a perfumed oil on him, which only burned mildly on the open wounds. When he had been dressed and a brush pulled through his knotted hair, only then was Reek allowed to help Ramsay.

"You shouldn't get your stink on me, Reek," Ramsay had said. "My new wife won't like it." Ramsay was dressed in even finer clothes then his, but of course that was fitting. He was the one supposed to marry the Stark girl. He would be the one underneath the bleeding red eyes of the weirwood tree tonight to receive her. Ramsay certainly looked more acceptable then Reek would ever be.

The knock was soft on the door, partly because he was terrified to do so and another because it still pained him to curl his hand into a fist. He had stood outside her door, long enough for the candle to burn more then he would have liked. Reek was scared. He tried to hold the tears back, but in the end had to wipe away the evidence that left traces on his face. He was grateful Master had given him a bath then; oftentimes his tears would leave tracks, a clean line cast against the grime he was always coated in.

"Yes?" Her voice sounded far off, yet she was just behind this door, hiding. Sansa Stark sounded strong, noble, highborn, elegant and when Reek pushed the door open, she looked it too. Pure and innocent. She was made to dress that way, even if it held true. Sansa Stark had always been the picture of her mother, showing each day she would be far more beautiful and comely then the late Lady Stark. She was. Tonight she was her mother and her father, everything she had learned about being a southron lady and who she is as a Northerner; white wolves fur to cloak her and fish pins to hold her together. He remembered seeing those pins before, in another life. A sullen boy carving deep grooves into the table, learning from maps, another always laughing, making jests. _My name is Reek. It rhymes with peek_.

"I've come to escort you to the godswood, milady." He had tried to look up at her, to meet the eyes of her mother. It was hard enough to say the words. Though he had been cleaned and dressed up, Sansa still look at him with disgust, disdain. "Please milady, will you take my arm?"

"No." Hate. Revile. The arm he had proffered to her dropped to his side again.

"Lord Ramsay said I'm to take your arm," he said it like no other option could make sense. If Master says it, it is to be done.

"I'm not touching you," she could have spat out, but she was much too ladylike for that still.

"Please," Reek could feel the tears begin to pool in his eyes again. He looked away from her. "He'll punish me." He saw movement out of the corner of his eyes, blurry as they were.

"You think I care what he does to you?" _He'll punish you._ But she strode past him and he moved to let her do so. Reek had hesitated to follow after her, but he knew he must. Her footsteps were harsh, clicking, resounding against the walls that lined the way for them. She was determined, although Reek didn't know for what cause. It was especially cold tonight, the biting wind brought a blossom of red onto her cheeks when they stepped outside. Winter had finally come at last.

Reek moved to step in front of her, to hold the lantern high and take her through the godswood. He knew his way. Sansa Stark knew her way better. Theon Greyjoy had been a boy of ten when he was first brought to Winterfell; she had many years before the ward of Lord Eddard Stark to run in between these trees. They had decorated the godswood like nothing he had ever seen before. It was resplendent. Reek did not know there could be beauty found in the bleak, snowy expanse. Soft flurries kissed their skin, melting upon touch as they marched further on. The way was lit for them. The day's snowfall had been paved aside to make a path. At the base of the trees, it strangled it's way up the trunks.

Everything was silent except for the swinging of his lantern. Reek tried to keep it still, to only hold it upright, but he was trembling, his hand unsteady, grasping as tightly as he could. As they approached, everyone was staring at him. Reek knew they were. He was scared. The worst were the seeping eyes of the weirwood tree, red tears that they always shed. Lord Eddard Stark could find solstice here and Lady Catelyn could always find her husband. Where Sansa and Arya and Bran and even later little Rickon could play monsters-and-maidens or hide-the-treasure or on the one occasion Sansa had asked Theon Greyjoy to play come-into-my-castle with them all. Where, underneath the red stare, did Theon Greyjoy first couple with a girl. And now these eyes would bear witness to another joining.

Roose Bolton approached them when they stopped close enough.

"Who comes before the old gods this night?" The way he spoke was reminiscent of the calm before a blizzard. Reek knew better by now, but never expected it. He was always forcing others to listen to his words, barely raising his tone louder then a whisper. Tonight though, he did not need to. The snow muffled any outside noises.

"Sansa," Reek said, for the first time, firmly, "of the House Stark come here to be wed." He said the words like they were his death sentence. Roose's pale, dead eyes were always flicking between him and her. They were worse then the bloody gaze, or his Master's stare. "A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?" With those words, he knew it was her death sentence.

He looked the part of a noble lordling. He stepped up to where his father was , to align himself next to him. Their eyes nearly matched, but Ramsay's were alight with glee beneath their depths.

"Ramsay of House Bolton," he said. "Heir to the Dreadfort and Winterfell. Who gives her?" Only then, did he turn his full attention onto Reek. He was not looking forward, but he knew his Master well. He would want to hear what he says.

"Theon," _You have to remember your name._ "Of House Greyjoy." _Your name is Reek._ "Who was –" _Reek, Reek_. "Who was her father's ward." _It rhymes with bleak_.

"Lady Sansa, will you take this man?"

"I take this man," she said, without a moment of hesitation. She had stepped forward, as if to physically accept the man before her. He saw the look on Ramsay's face, how pleased he was that she had given herself up to him without delay, that she could be his new plaything. A delighted grin adorned his face. Reek could only watch as Ramsay pressed his lips onto Sansa's, same as those crying eyes in front of him. The bone white face of the heart tree stood out to him, even amongst the blackness of night and hidden between the snow. He tried to tear his eyes away from it, but there was no where else to look. Reek could feel the tears begin to surface again. There was a whisper in the wind and the tears fell, in two fat drops, one from each eye. The tree had called him "Theon".

* * *

There was no bedding ceremony. It was not a raucous event in the Great Hall, no cheery shouting, no bawdy jokes to be told of their wedding night. Only sweet smells of mulled wine, the heady scent of suckling boar, turnips soaking in butter, trenchers filled with a thick barley and venison stew, breads already gone cold having been baked earlier in the morning. The wedding feast was an expense and a blow to their winter stores, though no one seemed to mind. They had the last Stark of Winterfell – _they didn't know, they don't know_ – all theirs, they win. The last Stark, now Lady Bolton. To them, it ensured a victory among Stannis's marching troops.

This feast was nothing like the feasts of Winterfell's past. Even the surly North had seen its fair share of joyous events. Reek wondered if Sansa was upset. Had she imagined a grander wedding night? Had she thought to be married in a godswood or a sept? Had she thought her father would give her away? Though Reek knew she had already been married once before. He thought maybe she wished she had never been stolen away from King's Landing now. It was true though, that a Northerner should never head south. Reek thought maybe she wished she had never left home to begin with.

The din of the Great Hall, though hardly overbearing, had already begun to die down. Reek frantically surveyed the area. It was a calm. From prior knowledge, he knew there would be a storm following soon. As if on cue, one of the Bastard's Boys, Sour Alyn, approached him. He had an even more rotten stench coming out of his mouth then Reek did.

"You're to bring Ramsay's bride to their bedchamber, Reek," he always spoke in a crude, gormless fashion, though Reek was frightened of him just the same. He obeyed and went for Sansa, who had been left to sit next to the Fat Walda Frey after awhile. She was doing her best to ignore her company, though she did not drink from her cups or do more then push the food around her plate.

"Lady –" Reek paused, "Lady Sansa, I'm to bring you to your bedchamber." She betrayed no emotion, only regarded him cooly. The chair pushed back, a noise no louder then the clamor already surrounding them. He thought she gave him the smallest of nods. Sansa was steel. When they moved within the castle, the only sound was that of their footsteps. The buzz from the Great Hall could no longer reach them; it was just a faraway dream for the both of them now. They moved as if in a trance.

He pushed open the door to their room. It had been the eldest Stark boy's room, the Young Wolf, Robb's room, the one who had been Theon Greyjoy's friend in his time in Winterfell. The room was his Master's now and it had been ornamented with dozens of candles, both casting light and warmth in the room, a new wolf's pelt laying across the bed, velvety soft. Reek knew Ramsay had made Myranda light each candle before and to set the table with wine and soft cheeses, but he had not seen her since the wedding in the godswood. He could only wait by the door now.

"Are you pleased, Sansa?" Ramsay addressed her as he walked into the room. Reek had not heard her say anything, but Ramsay was pleased by her response all the same. "I want you to be happy." Ramsay moved across the room. He had still not been dismissed. "My father says you're still a virgin." She looked at him instead, forcing him to cast his gaze even further away.

"Yes."

"Why?" Ramsay moved closer to her now. "Why are you still a virgin? Afraid of dwarves?"

"Lord Tyrion was kind. He was gentle. He never touched me."

"You're not lying to me?" Ramsay questioned. Only now did Reek chance a look up.

"No, mil-Ramsay."

"Lying to your husband on his wedding night… That would be a bad way to start a marriage," Ramsay's smile was almost sheepish as he reached a hand out to hold her cheek. "We're man and wife now. We should be honest with each other, don't you think?"

"Yes." It was a small voice that replied, thought it was strong and clear. She closed her eyes when Ramsay moved to kiss her, willing a romantic sentiment between them, now their slight height difference evident. She even kissed him back, as clumsy, as innocent as she is. With a softness and tenderness he had never seen before, Ramsay began to undo the intricate braids in Sansa's hair. She blinked, confused, and he would press kisses onto her, now and again. Loose, cascading red, like fire across the snow white of her dress, Ramsay ran fingers through it's length. She caught his hand and held it to her and he smiled.

"Reek!" They both jumped. "You've know Sansa since she was a girl. Now watch her become a woman." Angry, stormy blues looked back at her lord husband. Reek could only turn away to close the door, he could only give her that much. "Take this knife and undress her Reek. Be careful now not to cut her accidentally. I'm quite fond of her." With quavering hands, he accepted the blade, slow steps to his doom. Even with the other hand to steady himself, he was too frightened to keep it still. The knife ran through the ties at the back of her dress.

Once, Theon Greyjoy thought he would undress Sansa Stark on her wedding night. That Lord Eddard Stark would give her to his ward and then he could be a Stark, for true. But he was not Theon Greyjoy. It was not his wedding night. Slowly, the dress became looser. _Reek. My name is Reek_. He heard crying, though he couldn't be sure if it was Sansa or himself. He could only push the dress off her body, there was no use in wondering where the tears came from. _Reek. It rhymes with meek_. With his Master's prompting, he cut through her smallclothes as well. Ramsay took her to the bed.

* * *

AN: Oh my god, that was really hard to write and I feel like it's shit anyways. It's also not as long as other chapters for sure. I was gonna make it a bit more like the book version of events, but even doing as much as I did was exhausting. Please let me know what you think; I feel like I rushed it a bit, but I just kinda had to get past this.  
I want to write a little mini chapter from another character's POV and publish it sometime in the middle of the week as more on the wedding, and then next Sunday will be an after-wedding chapter/moving on with the story. Anyways, I'll do my best to get that out to you, so be on the look-out for it. (In other news, how about Theon and Jon's meeting tonight? Actually my favorite bit from the whole show. My baby Theon, trying his best not to make it awkward.)


	7. ROOSE I

I'm not a stranger  
It's just a strange land  
It's getting louder, I leave when I can  
Danger here is so quiet  
Water here is the fire

Stranger is the fire  
Water in the night

It's in me, it's in you too  
Only she could know me  
But we haven't met before  
I'm feelin', feelin'  
She think she knows me  
I don't give a fuck at all

I let them all in, they all wanna stay  
I'll tear it all down if that's what it takes  
The danger here is I'm higher  
Falling further to find it (ooooh)

Stranger in the fire  
Lay with me tonight

It's in me, it's in you too  
Only she could know me  
But we haven't met before  
I'm feelin', I'm feelin'  
She think she knows me  
I don't think she know at all

Face down, can't breathe  
It's cold  
Just don't need it  
Face down, can't see  
It's cold  
Just don't need it  
Face down, can't breathe  
It's cold  
Just don't need it  
Face down, can't see  
It's cold  
Just don't need it

It's in me, it's in you too  
Only she could know me  
But we haven't met before  
I'm feelin', feelin'  
She think she knows me  
I don't give a fuck at all  
It's in me, it's in you too  
Only she could know me  
But we haven't met before  
I'm feelin', feelin'  
She think she knows me  
I don't give a fuck at all

\- "Stranger" by Mothxr

* * *

She was a vision. With the red having finally returned to her hair, she was everything he imagined her to be. Sansa Stark was not a girl styled after the North, although she completely belonged here. He thought on what her wedding might have been like to The Imp. Surely, she would have been dressed in summer silks, her hair done in a southron fashion, a red Lannister cloak draped over her shoulders, doing nothing to compliment her auburn hair. Dressed in all white, cast against the snow, her hair stood out now. It only cemented the fact that she was, indeed, who she said she was.

The apples of her cheeks were flushed red, an attractive sight against the delicate porcelain of her white skin. Though a man of few words already, even he was at a loss for them. In spite of her wedding dress and beneath the furs that covered her from him, he could tell that the shape of her body was pleasant. He had noticed her form before. When she had first arrived in Winterfell and stood by to wait for her. The way her chest curved outward, a gentle blossom of her hips, the lengthiness of her neck, to which she always seemed to be looking down onto him coldly. Sansa was nothing like his wife. She was the winter rose in the garden amongst all these dead brambles.

Roose Bolton moved forward to receive her. Tonight, there was total blackness in the godswoods, save the lanterns they had made to light the way. The heart tree loomed over them, bearing witness to this forced marriage. Her stark face, pale as the moon, in contrast to the night around them, stood out to him. Fear, confusion, hate? Perhaps Roose had expected these to grace her features, but she was devoid of any emotion, only pure apathy. Her mask. He imagined this is how she had been able to survive them yet; how the sweet singing bird had been tossed to the lions and bested them, to be able to come out alive at all. Had she shown a shadow of a doubt, perhaps Roose would have called the marriage to a stop, right then and there. He had plunged the dagger into Robb Stark's heart, could he truly send another Stark to their grave? In sight of the gods, he wed them.

The small wedding party made their way to the Great Hall, for what would be a small reception feast. He had not wanted one at all, did not care to be around the other Northern lords who detested him and secretly wished him dead, but Ramsay had insisted. Any excuse to eat and drink his fill. Winter had come, yet not in regards to the feast to be laid out tonight. They would only have to worry about their dwindling stores come morning. He was only worried about the girl before him. His eyes trained on her. On the way her body moved, slowly, carefully through the snow, head level, always looking forward. He noticed the chill that came from her exhales, he noticed the soft snowflakes, resting in her braids, sleeping on her lashes, he noticed Ramsay's hand reach to grab hers and twine their fingers together. Their hands had both been ungloved, as the majority of the hosts had been, and now they could find warmth in each other. Roose almost half-hoped she would snatch her hand away from his, but he knew to not expect any visible malice from Lady Sansa. She herself had reached for his son's hand at dinner. For all one knows, Sansa and Ramsay may truly be infatuated with each other.

Not for the first time tonight did Roose think to enact his rights for first night. Sansa Stark was a waste on his son. The boy was crude; him who played with his whores and hunted them, who's only joy was peeling people apart. He had given his son a virgin Stark bride, miracle that is was Tyrion Lannister had not taken her maidenhead before. Roose wondered what kind of strength the dwarf had to keep himself away from her. She was still growing, that much was obvious. A girl of seven and ten would grow only a little more, but he wondered just how much more. Sansa Stark must have her father's height; she was taller then most men gathered here today, certainly taller then any woman, taller then his own short, squat wife. He imagined how long her legs might be underneath that dress, how they might match in color to the gown, how they might look wrapped around his own hips.

The serving girls had laid the feast out already upon their arrival to the Great Hall. It was small in regards to the occasion, though fair more then they could afford to serve right now. Typically, the union between two great Houses would warrant more food then this, more drink then this, more sworn bannermen then these among them. But Roose was ill at ease by these numbers to begin with. _A peaceful land, a quiet people_. He spied the other Houses around him, the Umbers, the Manderlys, the Karstarks, even the Lady Barbrey Dustin had made the effort to leave her castle and join them, though he had wished she had not. The woman talked far too much and was far too curious. Though she was a fan of her own story of how late Brandon Stark had took her maidenhead. One need only mention the name "Brandon", even of a different person, and she'll discuss him at length. He keeps her by his side now, to entertain her and keep her sweet. The new Lady Bolton had been sat next to the other Lady Bolton, a sour attempt to placate the younger. Even Roose could see the anger and envy in those twin pools. If Ramsay had enough smart to entertain and adore his new lady wife, instead of drinking with his boys, maybe the tension would ease later tonight. Though, knowing his bastard, he was sure to spoil the mood in some other way.

His thoughts turned to the bedding that would occur later this evening. Roose was half-surprised Ramsay had not carried her to his bedchamber straight from the godswood. He had never known his bastard to have patience. The boy was quick-tempered and self-indulgent. Ramsay was still a child, overly eager to collect his prize and play with new toys. Roose wondered how damaged this one would be or how quickly his son would want to throw her away. Without a doubt, he would torment the girl somehow when they were alone together tonight. The castle would turn deaf ears to it, but Roose would still hear about it come the morrow, somehow. He had sealed Sansa Stark's fate and for that, he should bear witness to every hurt and downfall. Perhaps that was to be his own torture.

He noticed Sour Alyn make his way to where Theon was. Tonight, the Greyjoy boy had given away the bride, just as Ramsay had wanted. It was only by his word that he looked and smelled well enough to do the task. If it were up to Ramsay, his pet would have been stinking this whole hall, only another terror he could bestow on everyone else tonight. No matter how lordly Theon looked now, the dread in those eyes had not left him. He was scared to give Sansa Stark away, he was scared to be amongst all these lords and ladies, he was scared when Sour Alyn approached him and gave him direction. He was scared to approach Lady Sansa and bring her to her fate. The girl, with looks so much like a porcelain doll, resigned herself to lie among monsters. He spied his son, eyes so very like his own, trained on his bride. It was then that Roose realized that he had not ignored Sansa the entire evening. Yes, they had not talked nor sat next to each other throughout the feast, but he had always been looking at her, always hopeful she would look back at him. He had saved her from the bedding ceremony, perhaps another act of good faith, perhaps another act to vie for her attention. Roose had no idea his son was a romantic.

Ramsay made to get up from the table. Damon Dance-for-Me whistled as immature men are want to do – or those drunk in their cups – while his own son rolled his eyes.

"Promise to save me a piece of the bloody sheet, Ramsay!" Skinner had called after him. Ramsay made no notice of the request, but Roose noticed his son grimly sucking at his teeth, a trait the boy always had when he was annoyed by something. With the bride and groom now gone from the Great Hall, the feast would not last much longer. Roose would make sure of it. There would be no need to further this engagement. He called to the other lords of their Houses to draw them away and discuss Stannis's approaching army.

* * *

AN: So this really is a bit of a mini chapter. It's the shortest one to date, yaaaaay, haha! I had wanted to extend the wedding a bit and always kind of wanted it from two different, outside perspectives. I'll be working hard for Sunday's update in the meantime, which will finally move forward with the story. Thank you for always being patient with me and my penchant for slow-burn.


	8. RAMSAY II

Ramsay woke up before his wife. Beneath the furs they shared, her body was hidden from him. Sansa lay with her back turned to him, on the furthest side of the bed. He stretched, creeping out of the bed so as not to disturb her slumber, and made his way to where Reek had curled up. His pet had done everything he had been told to last night, well, with the exception of leading Sansa by her arm into the godswood. Though what had transpired before would probably be punishment enough for Reek. He wouldn't want to spoil the mood the day after his wedding.

He hadn't wanted to leave Sansa cold and refrained from grabbing a cover, so he crouched naked in front of Reek. His eyes were puffy, no doubt from all his incessant crying the night before. As if the other could feel his gaze on him, Reek awoke with a start. Ramsay smiled.

"Reek," he whispered softly, "you can go now. Don't you know a man should be alone with his wife the morning after they've been wed. That's very rude of you to disturb us." Trying to make haste, Reek scurried to get up, clamoring to his feet. He always had a noisy, clumsy way about him, which Ramsay found amusement in usually, though today he could find little humor in it. He held an index finger to his lips in a signal for silence, which Reek nodded anxiously in compliance. He hobbled as quietly as possible, though fruitless in his attempt with the act of opening and closing the bedroom door. Ramsay sighed, running fingers through his hair, and padded back to the bed he now shared with his darling wife.

She was awake now, though pretending not to be. Her body was stiff beneath the furs, breathing controlled and even, similar to prey trying to remain hidden during a hunt. He crawled back into bed to be with her, pulling the covers off her body, watching the goosebumps erupt to meet the chill in the air. Sansa did not respond other then her body's involuntary reaction.

As it was customary in the North, the weak sun tried to burrow through skies of slate gray. Had it not been for the hot springs that ran through the walls of Winterfell and the dying embers of flame in their hearth, they would have no other warmth, not from the numerous candles previously lit and certainly not from the sun. Sunbeams strained to make their way through the window, feeble as they were, though it still provided Ramsay enough light to look upon his wife. What he had originally thought in the darkness of last night was perfect, smooth, beautiful, ivory skin, proved to be wrong. In the morning light, he saw the discoloration of old bruises and hurts, scar tissue puckered. He peeled the wolf pelt further down her body, revealing the defects that littered her body. He found the red stain dying the inside of her thighs, his memento. Still, there was not even a hint of movement from her and had it not been for the steady rise and fall of her breathing, Ramsay would think her dead. Her face is perfect and pretty, a picture. Sansa Stark's body was flawed, marked, beautiful, a snowy white expanse still. Ramsay moved closer, hugging her body close to him. He crushed a kiss into her back, on one of her imperfections, one, two, another and another. There was a sharp intake; Sansa showed signs of life.

"Don't," she said, her voice low, something he strained to listen to. Ramsay ignored her. His lips were soft against her skin, marred, lovely, but his hand was hard at her hip, grip forceful, pulling her as close as he could to him."Stop it, Ramsay." Sansa did not bother to raise her voice any louder then it previously was, though her tone became more commanding. He moved to turn her over, to face him, reaching to bite and suck at the delicate flesh of her neck, down to her shoulders. She fought him now, all her effort to push him away or claw at him with her fingernails. Ramsay met her with equal fervor. She finally looked down on him with the same murderous venom she bestowed on his father. Eyes were dark, swirling sapphires, feral and angry. He kissed her on those roseate lips. She growled, shoving soft hands forcibly against his face.

"Stop it, stop it, stop it!" She sounded the part of a spoiled little girl, but she didn't cry. Sansa fought against him with wild fury, though her attacks were weak and half-hearted. Ramsay clutched her face between one hand, the other moved south, fingers looking to dip into the heat between her legs instead.

Without warning, the heavy wooden door was pushed open. Myranda stood in the entryway. Both husband and wife glared daggers at the unexpected guest. Ramsay released his hold, though Sansa did not make any attempt to move from him.

"I'm to draw a bath for Lady Sansa," Myranda said, eyes not meeting his. Ramsay flopped onto his back, with a roll of his eyes. As if he were to believe that. Knowing Myranda, the cunt purposely wanted to interrupt them. Her jealousy games were going to be annoying.

"Well, go on then, get to it," Ramsay drawled. "Don't make my lady wife wait." He gave Myranda a pointed look, one she caught this time as she left the bedchamber. Ramsay rolled over again, draping an arm across the front if his wife's body, feeling her secure against him. The points of her hip bones poked at him and he lazily began to trace shapes and swirls around them. Again, Sansa became dead to him. Ramsay stared at her, while she bore holes into the ceiling of their bedchamber.

She would always be breath-taking to him. No matter the pains she went through, no matter the scars that marked her body, no matter what torture he would undoubtedly force onto her. Her face was innocence and an angel, hardened ivory mask that it was, but one only had to peer through her cracks to meet the soft interior. Ramsay would never be able to control himself around her.

Myranda returned with pots of boiling water, other handmaidens accompanying her. One drug the bathing basin from across the room to ready it for the bath. Next to him, Sansa covered her body with the wolf fur. Methodical, meticulously, a girl after another came with heated water to fill the tub, each averting their eyes to him and his wife, except Myranda. She stared at him unabashed, a silent strength to prove her worth. Ramsay would play her game, for a moment. He laid there, possessively holding onto Sansa though eyes were not on her. Even if she was covered by the pelt, Myranda would not miss the movement of his hand. His middle and ring finger were rewarded with a warmth, though dry upon entry. He thumbed at the pearl hidden in her folds. Sansa squirmed and moved to cover him with the blanket as well, her other hand went to remove him from within. Finally, Myranda bowed her head and stormed out from the room. Even if Sansa rejected him, Ramsay smiled.

The bath stood steaming in the middle of the room. The girl from before had moved it close to the fireplace, also taking the time to light the fire anew. Though the early morn, the water would cool fast from the winter chill. Once the basin had been filled, Myranda returned, as was her duty. Avoiding his gaze, she moved to the side of the bed his wife lay. She offered a hand to help Sansa out of bed. Worse then the look she gave him, worse then the one she gave his father, Sansa wanted to kill with the poison in her gaze.

"Do not touch me," she spit venom to the other girl. Ramsay barked a laugh, his hold still on her. He nooked his face into the crook of her neck and gave her another lovebite. Sansa was too preoccupied to give fight against him. "Don't ever touch me again. I'll bathe myself." Myranda's hand dropped to her side as Sansa flipped the pelt off her body and rose from the bed. She shined with her abuses, radiated with the blood between her legs, glowed with a savage rage. Ramsay crawled to her from his side of their bed, cradling her from behind, face pressed into her backside. She pushed his hold off of her.

"You can leave now," Sansa said, to whom he was uncertain, though Myranda followed her orders regardless. Once the other girl was gone, his wife went to close the door, unabashed by her lack of clothing. She slammed it shut. Sansa made her way to the tub and sunk beneath the waters. With a renewed sort of passion, she began to furiously scrub at her skin, copper tainting the waters already.

Ramsay studied his wife. The abrasive rag that had been left for her ran red marks across her skin, attempts to rid herself of his touch he knew. Sansa tried to cleanse the place between her legs, to ease the hurts he had dealt to her, to purge the ghost of him inside her. Silent tears fell uninvited from the stormy blues. Red rimmed eyes met the pale ice of his own. Without looking away, Sansa sunk beneath the water.

Without his wife's gaze on him, Ramsay left the comforts of their bed. He wondered how long she would stay under and moved across the room to where the tub sat. His fingers rippled rings across the surface of the water. It was still warm, inviting, and he stepped in it. There wasn't enough room for the both of them and Sansa scrunched up to the opposite side to accommodate him. She made to rise from below the water. Ramsay held her head, denying her access to the surface. He felt her kick against him, thrash and batter in the water, but to no avail. The wilder her movements became, the more steadfast he held onto her. At last, when he didn't think she could take it anymore, did he release her. She broke through the water, a gasp for air, noisy, sucking in what she could. He leaned forward to take that breath from her, stealing more kisses. She bit at his lips and he smiled.

"Turn around, Sansa," Ramsay said, their lips still in contact. She obeyed him, the fangs she sank into him gone, and presented her back to him. Ramsay sat down, his legs moving to fill the space in front of her, wrapping around her waist, as she made room for him. He reached around to take the rag from her hands and wrung it out, moving it across the expanse of her back, tender as any lover would. His hardening length pressed into her from where they sat.

* * *

Everyday since their wedding night, Sansa dressed in the white dress of her bridal gown. The fur has been ruined as well as the laces in the back, but she repaired the dress almost as good as new. They shared their marriage bed every night, and every morning Sansa looked the bride again. She alternated withering looks or blatant ignorance when their eyes blinked the sleep away, sometimes lenient to his touches, other times fighting with him in fury. She left their bedchamber in the same way everyday, an ache between her legs and dressed a blushing bride. From the bottom of her dressing chest, she dug out an off-white colored cloak, fine had it been once he was sure, though no longer the case. It was painted with someone's blood.

His she-wolf didn't answer him when he questioned who's it was, only pecked a kiss to his lips and left their room. She moved around Winterfell as a specter, matching the snow that fell daily onto the grounds. She gave her courtesies to all she met throughout the castle, pleasant to his father and stepmother, the household guard, an old lady, to him. All except Myranda, which he could never understand why, nor cared to discover the true reasons. He wondered where she went, though he was quick to find out. Sansa only moved from beneath the crypts of Winterfell or within the godswood.

He found her there, often enough, praying underneath the heart tree. He would not approach her, only inspect her from behind. Her autumn hair looked out of place amongst the white around her, though even the weirwood tree had red leaves. Her eyes were always closed, but Ramsay had the sense that she could see him. He always felt watched in the godswood, though he didn't know if it was his imagination playing tricks on him or the unnerving bloody gaze of the tree she sat near. The red sap that cried blood matched the stains on her cloak. It made them both seem more vicious then they were.

For one week he studied her this way, never coming too close, though he wasn't sure if it was for her consideration or his nerve. On the day he went to her, the snow had turned icy and his footsteps crunched when he moved. Her eyes did not flutter open as he expected they would.

"What do you pray for, Sansa?" Ramsay stood in front of her. Offhand, he thought he could name any number of things she might pray for. Her dead family wished back to life, death to him and his father, true freedom within her home, the clocks to turn back time. Any were fair, he admitted.

"I pray for my lost innocence, Ramsay," Sansa said, eyes closed still. He sat beside her, close enough for their bodies to be touching, shoulder to shoulder, and unfastened his cloak to drape it across her body.


	9. SANSA III

_From porcelain to ivory to steel._ Though, what was she now? For the first time, she was expected to govern herself. She could speak her own words instead of the words they had come to expect her to say, but she could think of none. Not to the family she was married into, the lord husband she laid next to each night, those in Winterfell that expected her to raise her voice. Ramsay had taken her virtue and also her words.

In truth, she went down to the crypts and the godswood everyday, but never prayed. She told Ramsay she did, but her mind was always devoid of thoughts and things she wanted. She could not think of anything to offer up to gods who had sought to take everything away from her. Sansa had come to the godswood – and the sept – everyday growing up in Winterfell. A stupid little girl, offering up songs and prayers to a tree and statues that never listen. She wondered what her father prayed for. Eddard Stark, solemn, silent, often sat underneath the heart tree with Ice in his hand. Maybe if she knew what her father prayed for, she would have her own idea. But she never heard his prayers answered either. Even though it had a face and mouth, the weirwood didn't respond to their prayers.

If Lady were here, she wouldn't be so alone. She could curl into her soft fur instead of next to her husband. Ramsay wouldn't want to share her bed then. The dogs in the kennels had all been afraid of the direwolves when they had been pups; no one would know Lady's sweet temperament if they were all scared of her size. If Lady were here, she could have wet kisses, instead of the traces of melted snow on her cheek, to taste the air of damp undergrowth, instead of the bitter lump she swallowed now. There would be silence still though.

Sansa knew Ramsay looked at her. Spied on her from a distance, sat with her sometimes. She couldn't understand why he did it. She kept her eyes closed though and could pretend his warmth was Lady's. Where she was soft, Ramsay was hard. He was built like she expected any knight to be; he was of the North too and looked it. She wondered if Jeyne Poole would have thought him handsome. Her friend had thought Beric Dondarrion attractive, had also thought Theon was handsome. She wouldn't think he was now. Sansa had always fawned over boys who were pretty, with curls and pouty lips. Perhaps her taste was her ruin. She should have liked Northern men and stayed in the North. She was here now though.

When Ramsay had started to sit with her, she tried to ignore him. Her lady mother often found her father in the godswood, and they might talk or sit in silence, sometimes wishing not to disturb him. Catelyn Tully was not a Stark true, not of the North, and never felt at ease in the godswoods. Sansa and Ramsay did not feel those things. Though neither were religious, a godswood was natural to them. Ramsay only spoke to her that one time, to question her, attempts to understand her, and for that she appreciated his silence. She would not admit it out loud, but she appreciated the warmth his body gave her. She appreciated the cloak he would give her. She took his hand when he offered to help her up and didn't pull away from him if he chose not to let go. The hair on the top of his head would tickle under her chin, his head resting on her shoulder. Ramsay fell asleep this way, until he woke up and wordlessly rose to his feet, ready to leave, and she would follow.

It was when Ramsay slept did she hear whispers. It was always her name and she thought Ramsay had spoken it at first. She would open her eyes and look at him then. Study dark lashes, like butterfly wings against pale cheeks. They hid a pale blue, like a pretty marble that kids would want to play with. She sometimes stared at them, when they both woke up at the same time in the morning. They were like the frozen pond in front of her now and she half-expected to see her own visage reflected in them, but Sansa never stared hard or long enough to search for it. Only when Ramsay was sleeping did she look at him so closely. In the night, after he had tired himself out, she would stare at him then. She knew he didn't talk in his sleep from those times, had stayed awake long enough to hear his breathy sighs, see movement beneath his lids, feel his subconscious grip on her, but he never said anything. He was not whispering her name now either.

Sansa moved his head off her today, to gently let it rest against the bone white bark instead. If that had not woken him up, she knew he did when she had crept to the face carved into the trunk. Her mind was playing tricks, she hadn't had enough sleep, but Sansa swore it was the heart tree whispering her name. Delicate fingertips framed the face with a butterfly touch, almost not touching at all. The crying eyes stared at her, as well as her husband's icy blue gaze. She ignored both, only intent on listening, not seeing. Sansa turned her head, to lay her ear against the mouth of the heart tree. Everything was silence and unmoving. If she gave it her attention, perhaps it would sigh with sweet nothings in her ear. Even in her own mind, it sounded stupid, silly.

The voice had sounded familiar though. Sansa pressed a kiss onto the partially open mouth of the weirwood and got up. She moved to where Ramsay was and offered her hand for him to get up. She hadn't wanted to visit the godswood since then.

* * *

It had been a little over a fortnight since her wedding to Ramsay Bolton. This morning, she woke up before her husband. She had been dreaming before. She was running in what looked like overgrown tree roots, then amongst the bustle of a castle, though not one she had ever been to before, then what looked like the Riverlands, the Trident, then standing on a shore, eyes to a wrecked galley. Sansa didn't remember the dreams, not truly, though she wouldn't forget the howling of wolves that seemed to be in each. Then, she was in the crypts and Sansa thought she had awoken. All the candles had been lit and she was standing in front of her family. She must have come down to pray for them, it made sense. She did it everyday since her return to Winterfell. It was a place she could find peace and solace as well. There was the deathly quiet that came with the crypts. She found it more comforting then the rustle of leaves in the godswood or the crunch of snow Ramsay would make as he walked towards her. But there was no quiet today. Someone was speaking. Sansa tried to find them, she opened her mouth to call out to them, _speak up_ she had wanted to yell, but it was only their soft murmurs she could hear. She could tell she was running now, but her feet were noiseless. The voice grew louder only, which frightened her. _The lone wolf dies, while the pack survives_. She didn't want to hear her father's voice. She knew she should have protected him, been smarter, listened to her father, not been a spoiled, stupid, foolish, lovesick –

That's when Sansa had woken up. Calmly, the beating of her heart sloth-like, lids heavy to open. Ramsay was holding her again, and she carefully moved his arm off her. The floor was cold as she swung her legs out of bed. It was early in the morning and truthfully, Sansa wished to stay in bed instead, to hide her cold toes against her husband, steal heat from his body, to have someone, even if it was him, hold her. She was only in her dressing gown, a simple shift with ties in the front, no sleeves to keep her warmth inside. As soon as she had moved his arm, Sansa knew Ramsay would wake, so she hadn't bothered being quiet about opening the door. She peered down the corridor, in hopes of finding one of her handmaidens. Most did not like standing round the younger Lord and Lady Bolton's bedchamber, and Myranda was smart enough to make herself scarce. Most would not come to her if her husband was near. There was one now at least.

"Please," her voice was hoarse, like she truly had been yelling in her dream, "tend to the fire." The girl gave a jerky nod, quick to leave. Sansa left the door open and returned to the bed. Ramsay shifted back into his earlier embrace of her, head on her chest this time, arm across her hips.

"You'll let the cold in leaving that door open," he said. He brought a hand to the front of her shift then, pulling aside the material to reveal a breast. It _was_ cold; her nipple stood in a stiff peak as soon as it had to bare the chill. Ramsay nipped at it. She didn't know why he enjoyed something like that. She hadn't noticed where his other hand was traveling, trying to pay no mind to his tongue that had begun to lap at her nipple, until he had grabbed onto one of her hands. His hand was rough, in comparison to her own small, dainty one or the smooth hand of Joffrey, who had never held a sword unless to show it off. The difference between them unsettled her sometimes; the similarities did not. She gasped when he brought her own hand to his member. Sansa could tell he was half-hard already.

The handmaid she had spoken to in the hallway returned to their room, arms full with kindling. Sansa tried to remove her hand, but Ramsay kept it in place. The other girl pretended not to notice them, fingers fumbling to catch the fire alight. As soon as she had the fire roaring in the hearth, she scurried away, careful to close the door to their bedchamber behind her. Sansa wretched her hand away, throwing her legs over the side of the bed again, this time unaffected by the chill in the air. The fire was already warming their room and Ramsay was right, with the door closed, it would keep the cold at bay.

She found her wedding dress, what was piled into a heap before she went to bed the night before, folded neatly on the top of her dressing chest. She pinched the shoulders of the gown in between her thumb and index finger, letting it unfurl in front of her. It was beautiful, even though it had not been made by her. Whoever had made it was truly talented, though Sansa was not envious of their skill. After she had mended it from Theon's knife, Sansa felt the dress was far more attractive. Her needle was the more skillful between them. She was almost fond of the dress, the ivory material, a gown she had always imagined herself being wed in, before she thought of being married in the south. They had even detailed the dress with her mother's Tully fish pins, though Sansa had tucked those away safely the morning after. She hugged the dress to her body, smoothing the wrinkles in the bodice and against her thigh. It did not take her more then two paces to cross the room. Sansa threw the dress into the fire.

It was not as nearly satisfying to watch it burn as she had thought it would be. The fabric of the dress caught light rather quickly, but it would take some more time for it to totally burn. The laces of it were the first to burn, leading into the body of the gown. It was warm by the fire though.

"Aren't you going to burn the cloak too?" Ramsay said from the bed. Sansa did not even lift her gaze from the fire.

"No," she said, "that's not mine to burn." Her husband didn't ask her to clarify and so she returned to her chest, gently folded the white cloak that had been on top of it and buried it at the bottom of the trunk again. She extracted a midnight black dress from within and the needle necklace she had arrived to Winterfell wearing.

"Won't you help me lace up the dress?" Sansa said to Ramsay, stepping into the gown and turning to look at him from over her shoulder. He went to her, naked and unabashed, and she turned to look away from him, unaccustomed to looking at his body still and embarrassed for it. She held the dress in place, waiting for him. Ramsay didn't take the laces, but traced the scars on her skin, as he often did when he saw them. Gifts from Ser Meryn's sword, from Ser Boros's gauntlet, the others who did as Joffrey commanded. It was easy to hide the evidence in Winterfell. She had always been sweating in her long-sleeved summer silks in King's Landing; at least she needs the warmth here.

Suddenly, the ties were yanked together, binding tightly to her body. Ramsay went up the length of her back, following the natural progression. He pulled at them with force, pinching the dress together as tight as it would go, sometimes pinching her skin too. She didn't feel like scolding him. Perhaps she needed her dress this tight to hold her own self together. With no strength in her body, she might fall apart. Sansa hadn't realized he was done until his hands fell to her hips, pulling her close to him, and he suckled at the tender flesh below her ear. She squirmed, not entirely to get away, but the feeling made her ticklish. In retaliation, Ramsay bit her ear, hard and unforgiving. She turned around, pushing him off her. Her hand had come up, but facing him now, she faltered. He was smiling, boyish this time instead of the devious smirk he shows more often then not. Though his eyes looked a pale death, they were shining – some with mirth, mostly something else, though Sansa wouldn't chalk it up to adoration. If anything, the look in his eyes made her even angrier then the abuses he caused her. She slapped him across his face, the smile never leaving it. Sansa gathered her necklace and stormed out the room, pulling the chain over her head and slamming the door, before Ramsay could follow her out.

* * *

Sansa knocked on the door and without waiting, pushed it open. Fat Walda Frey sat at the small table in her room. She was surprised by Sansa's sudden arrival, as she should have been, since the older Lady Bolton had not invited her. Sansa carried a tray of lemon cakes with her, plopping them down on the already cluttered table. Behind her, the elderly woman who had first shown Sansa to her room, carried a tray as well, an assortment of fine cups and a larger tankard.

"I hope you don't mind my intrusion," Sansa said, seating herself across Walda. "I thought we could spend some time together. Lord Baelish and I had brought lemons with us, though I'm afraid the cakes aren't as good as Gage used to make them." The older woman seemed flustered, busying herself to make room on the table, amid her empty plates, unfinished sewing, and an open book.

"Not at all, Lady Sansa," Walda Frey said, pushing a glass off to the side, it clinking against some other plating. "I'm sorry the bedchamber is so untidy." Sansa looked around the room, from the clutter before them to the disheveled bed, as if Walda has just recently gotten out of it. She gave the woman a kind smile, even if the other's living environment disgusted her.

"It's fine Walda. I should be the one apologizing for coming in unannounced," she said, while motioning for the elderly woman to come closer and set down their refreshments. "I had her bring some tea, since it's awfully cold these days. You must be not be used to weather like this." The old woman set down some cup in front of each and pour the steaming hot liquid into their cups. Sansa reached for a lemon cake. "Mm, it really isn't the same at all, though you should still try it." Walda did, taking an ungracious bite and following it with a swallow of the tea.

"You're very kind to visit me, Lady Sansa," Walda said. Sansa thanked the old woman and dismissed her, waving off the acknowledgement. "You are right. The chill during these nights has been difficult to bear, though this tea is helping. It has quite an interesting taste though. Is this a Northern specialty?" Sansa took a sip of it herself.

"Oh, no, I don't think it is," Sansa said. "I had that woman make it for me, though perhaps she has her own methods of brewing. It is a bit different then I thought it would be. Besides, we are both Lady Bolton, I thought we should share some time together." Sansa spied the sewing on the table, that which was hastily buried underneath the book, the book under a plate. She pulled it out from underneath the pile and studied the handiwork. Her stitches were sloppy, though not nearly as bad as Arya's had been. Sansa traced her fingers along the lines, yet she had trouble figuring out what it was meant to be.

"Do you like it?" Walda asked. "It's supposed to be the baby's." Sansa smiled again at the other woman and put the work down.

"It's beautiful," she replied. Fat Walda Frey blushed in an unattractive way to the compliment, her face turning a ruddy red. "I would love to sew with you and make something for your baby as well." The older woman nodded, the second chin wobbling with the motion. Sansa poured her more tea, which Walda accepted graciously.

There was another knock on the door. This time the person behind it wait for Walda's voice. With an invitation granted, Myranda pushed the door open, keeping her head low. If she was surprised by Sansa's presence, she didn't let on, merely going about the room to perform her duties.

"Myranda is your handmaid now?" Sansa questioned, nibbling on her lemon cake. Walda was already on her second.

"Yes," she replied, washing down the tart cake with tea again. "Lord Bolton requested I take her for some time."

"I see," Sansa said. She wondered which Lord Bolton had ordered that.

* * *

AN: Sorry for the delay guys! I can't apologize enough! If anyone read my message in the reviews, I hadn't been feeling too well, which carried over into this past weekend as well. Hopefully you all enjoy this chapter and I'll return to my regularly scheduled updates, godforbid nothing else comes up. I hope you enjoy this chapter and see you all next Sunday!


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